


Truths

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Series: Serious Moonlight [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:59:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil should have known the hiring process had gone a little too smoothly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truths

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving old fic from 2013 - I actually haven't listened since ep 33, from the looks of things, so everything I post will likely be terribly non-canon-compliant. No comment spoilers, please--I do intend to get caught up!
> 
> Also, I tend to picture Microphone as the [third from the left](http://www.puppiesandflowers.com/blogimages/july07/micDeco.jpg) here.

It was there the first night he walked into the station, just sitting on the desk in the sound booth: a gorgeous antique microphone from the '30s, maybe earlier. The chunky, gold-plated head sat atop a sturdy steel base that looked like it would laugh at an earthquake, made back in the days when crisp lines and smooth edges went hand in hand with _substance_ , the heavier and flashier the better. He could probably wield it like a club in a pinch, but he was almost afraid to even breathe on it; surely it was only there for looks.

Poking around the sound booth for a mic that wouldn't double as one of the town's historic treasures, he came up with nothing but a few stray tapes from the archives, a handful of takeout menus and a fossilized pack of throat lozenges. He'd heard the heavy outer door clang shut in the middle of his search, and he wished he'd thought to ask the interns about the equipment before they left. He'd been cocky, he realized, lulled by Station Management's invitation to come check out the studio after hours in preparation for his very first show. He'd already been thinking of the sound booth as _his_ , and it was precisely that attitude that had gotten him abandoned to a nearly-empty station without backup or support.

If the regular microphone turned up within the next week from wherever it'd been "misplaced," he'd be surprised.

Huffing out a nervous sigh, he sat down in front of the console and flipped a few switches, settling the oversized headphones sitting beside the mic over his ears. Lovely as it was, the antique microphone was bound to be scratchy and staticky, the stylish windscreen less forgiving than the mesh- and foam-jacketed models he'd used all through his broadcast journalism classes. His plosives were going to sound like he was broadcasting from inside a wind tunnel, but with a little practice, _maybe_ he wouldn't embarrass himself utterly on the first day. He might even live to embarrass himself on the second.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could do this. Everyone said he'd been made for it. All he had to do was lean in, open his mouth, and speak.

"Hello, listeners," he said to his imaginary audience, his voice echoing only inside his headphones, and reached out like an anxious novice to curl a hand around the microphone's stem.

The jolt that went through him snapped his head back, blew his eyes open wide. In his tightly-clenched hand, he felt a steady throbbing, far too slow to be the rush of his blood through cramping fingers. His own pulse was racing, heart knocking hard against his ribs, every muscle locked. There had to be a short in the system somewhere, and it was his own damn fault for not trying harder to locate better equipment, for not being smart enough to guess at the resentment the station interns would feel for being passed over, for waltzing through the hiring process and not expecting a test at the end.

Something tugged at him, something he didn't want to think about, the way not looking at an open wound made it hurt less. And that was just it--he ought to be screaming or wishing he could scream. Every one of his disappointing pain receptors should be on fire, his heart stuttering out of sync. Instead it was his head that felt strange, a liquid pressure building up inside until the plates of his skull strained along their seams, curls of thought drifting out through the widening cracks.

He wasn't alone inside the booth. There was something looming over him, surrounding him, massive and unknowable. One tiny, terrified part of Cecil wanted nothing more than to scrabble about for the bits of his consciousness floating piecemeal away from him, bundle everything up in a polite little knot before they could _touch_ anything, and run as far and fast as he could. Never mind that he didn't know how; he could barely keep his thoughts to himself some days, let alone his entire mind.

The walls were smearing, glass and soundproof panels wobbling at the edges. He couldn't hear himself through the roaring of his pulse, but he was certain he was whimpering aloud, his head threatening to crack open in earnest and dribble the contents out his ears. Panting shallowly, he fought the painless current that rode him, tried to keep the squirming tendrils of escaping thought from stretching too far. He could almost feel the weight of invisible eyes, but instead of scooping out his mind and devouring it awake and aware, the presence only hovered. Watching. Waiting.

There was no breath left in him as he silently gave in, pushing through the splintered shell of his mental barriers and reaching desperately for the immensity brooding over him. Anything that doesn't kill you, as his mother used to say, was probably already full when you found it. It was a chance he'd have to take, that the presence wasn't hovering just out of reach because it enjoyed watching its prey squirm but because it was waiting for him to choose.

In the instant he made contact, the entire world went white. One moment an arc of true electricity was writhing up his arm like a nest of snakes, and then he was heaving his first breath in over a minute, a scream tearing his throat as icy needles washed over his face and prickled delicately over his wide, staring eyes. Starbursts flickered at the edge of his vision, but the gibbering fear that tried to overwhelm him seemed suddenly distant.

His thoughts were... _growing._

Startlement pinned him to his seat even as he sagged in place, the power of motion returning but ignored. Eyes still full of crawling sparks, he couldn't see a thing, but he could feel the sound booth all around: the sturdy walls and the hum of machinery, a snaky nest of electrical cords hiding under desks and behind cabinets creeping stealthily away to deeper hiding places. What started as a hazy impression swam into clearer focus that grew sharper by the second, colors washing in as his mind's eye squinted and strained. Vertigo slithered down his throat to settle in the pit of his stomach as he noticed how the walls all around felt more like doors, the door like an open window, windows like air--as if physical barriers were a concept that stopped _working_ the more dimensions one threw on the pile. There was really nothing to stop him from sinking right through the floor except his fervent desire not to.

A muffled thud from Station Management's office echoed to something not entirely unlike his ears despite the booth's soundproofing, and he turned his attention to the hall outside in a sudden attack of nerves. The instructions in Management's letter had been awfully vague, and he had no idea whether he'd done exactly what they intended or whether he'd trespassed in some way. What if there'd been some mistake?

Though he physically hadn't moved an inch, he could see the hallway in perfect detail, from the corkboard shaggy with fliers and reminders halfway down the corridor to the faint indigo glow seeping out from under Management's door. Sudden curiosity teased him with the impulse to get closer, peek through the frosted glass or even step inside, but instinct or possibly something even wiser hit him with a prudent case of the shivers that had him bolting in the opposite direction.

A jolt, a jump, and he was _out_ , out of the station entirely and spilling out onto the streets. He tasted hot asphalt and dry, crackling grass, the friendly, humming pulse of the radio tower's blinking light. Just down the block, a meeting of the Sheriff's Secret Police was breaking up at the Play Ball store, while three blocks away Gloria Loudermilk was leaving a thermos of sweet tea on the windowsill for a deputy who was just arriving, young enough to be her grandson, new to the job and nervous with it.

He had no eyes to blink, no mouth to gape--and yet he _did_ and was doing just that, slumped in a creaking desk chair with one hand wrapped around the microphone like a lifeline. Thinking about it too hard drove a spike of pain through his head, just behind his eyes, so he stopped thinking. Stopped questioning. Simply existed. Until something poked him right in the id with a feeling not his own.

_Curiosity._ Unadulterated, unbridled curiosity that went hand in hand with an invitation: _Come and see._

He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't. But he was a journalist, and the town was _right there._

He... _moved_...cautiously at first, past the Loudermilks and their grateful young deputy, past the Sandero house and the ranking board that young Michael, no longer the baby of the family, was steadily moving lower on. A small herd of deer broke from cover as he drifted past a newly-vacant house, the yellow glow of the streetlamps gilding the points of the broker's magnificent rack as it sniffed the air suspiciously. There was Big Rico, juggling half a dozen gas cans pulled from the back of the restaurant that he loaded into his car, and Cecil made a mental note to call in an anonymous commendation to the local OSHA office. It was heartwarming to see a business owner so concerned with safety, especially after that terrible fire at the pizza place across town.

He ghosted past the long-abandoned building right next to Big Rico's--such an eyesore; he hoped someone would occupy the place soon--moving further in, further out. The featureless walls of the library looked entirely too flimsy to his new way of seeing, and he cowered away from City Hall with his heart in his throat, wondering how Mayor Bradshaw could bear to hold so many press conferences so close to--

There was a rushing, a sense of glorious speed and warping distance, and when the world snapped back into focus, he found himself staring into the mayor's living room. It was almost as if he'd performed a reverse summoning, as if speaking--thinking--the man's name had summoned Cecil to his side.

_Oh, dear_ , he heard himself murmur somewhere very far away.

The very nude, very tearful wreck of the mayor was huddled in the center of his bloodstone circle, begging for mercy and promising better approval ratings if only their unseen Masters would let him live.

It looked like the rumors of a special recall ballot were true.

Embarrassed by the spectacle, Cecil turned away, though he had to admit he was...intrigued. Would it work again? With whom? And who could he think of _right this minute_ unlikely to be doing anything he didn't particularly want to catch them at?

_Old Woman Josie_ , he decided with some fondness and not a little sympathy. She was always so--

\--alone, puttering slowly around her kitchen instead of sleeping the way he'd hoped, fussing with tea, a fragrant chamomile, her weary eyes fixed on nothing. She'd had a large family once, but they hadn't inherited her excellent survival skills. He wondered whether she'd take it as pity if he dropped by for a visit. Maybe he could interview her for the--

Oh, unmerciful gods. The _show._

Somewhere half a city away, his body trembled in amazement and growing excitement. If this was the true power of the station's microphone, then he'd never have to wait for tardy announcements from the highway patrol for his traffic segment. At the merest thought, Night Vale's roads rolled out under his admiring gaze like the veins of the better sort of abomination, empty for now but waiting for dawn to fill again. He could report on meetings and socials and unholy sabbaths without relying on the station interns, could cover the mayor's press conferences and the City Council's press releases from a prudent distance, relay the news as it happened. It was going to be _amazing._

Always assuming he wasn't trapped like this, doomed to watch over a town he could no longer interact with while his body slowly wasted away in a chair he could no longer leave. That would be fairly upsetting.

Experimentally, he fixed his attention on his body once more and peeled one finger away from the stem of the microphone he was still clutching, then another. A third and then a forth, and as he tremblingly pulled back his hand, the sense of connection, of _expansion_ , snapped all at once. Wide, blind eyes screwed shut automatically, and when he blinked them open again, he could see--but _only_ see, and only through the narrow windows of his eyes. His sense of the world as a vast, breathing extension of himself was gone.

Stomach lurching with a crawling terror he belatedly labeled as acute claustrophobia, he shoved himself back from the desk, chair wheels squealing a protest, until he was drawn up short in the center of the room by the cord of his headphones reaching its limit. The walls felt like mountains, as unreal and yet so heavy, and part of him wanted nothing more than to scramble out into the street to stand under the cold, clear gaze of the void, soothingly infinite. He just didn't think his knees would hold him if he tried to stand.

Slowly pulling off his headphones, he stared at the antique microphone with new eyes. It looked no different, though surely it should. It should have an aura, or teeth, or the aura of teeth, only not like a dentist. _Sharper._ From the way it had neatly cross-sectioned his consciousness and spread him across several dimensions like smears on a slide, it could have shredded his very soul without any effort. Instead it let him go.

He couldn't make himself move at first, and his shuffling attempts to wheel himself back to the desk without rising were clumsy at best. He was likely tempting fate just staying in the same room, but...it hadn't hurt him. And what it had showed him was...incredible.

He always had been too curious for his own good.

Reaching out slowly, careful not to grasp or to grip and trap himself a second time, Cecil touched a single fingertip to the steel base of the microphone stand and sucked in a startled gasp. The feeling of some looming, unseen presence was still there, only closer, less patient but more inviting. Snatching his hand back, he curled his fingers into a fist but stayed where he was, willing his heartbeat to slow. He was being ridiculous, he was certain; just because he couldn't sense the unseen colossus in the room, that didn't mean it couldn't shuck his mind from its mortal shell if it wanted to. In fact, his hesitation was probably downright offensive.

"Sorry," he murmured, unclenching his trembling hand and reaching out a third time. The steel under his fingertips radiated a living warmth as he slowly ran two fingers down the length of the microphone's stand, breath hitching as he felt his mind open as sweetly as a hungry mouth to let glimpses of true things slip inside.

They didn't separate for hours, and even then, it was only because Cecil couldn't put off the call of nature any longer. Exhausted and exhilarated at once, he staggered out of the booth and down the hall, feeling half blind though his eyes were working just fine at the moment. The world just looked so much smaller through his own paltry senses, drab and a little sad.

It took a hand braced against the wall to hold him up, and as he stared into the depths of the urinal--well, the shallows, really--he wondered how long it would take for the world outside the studio to completely lose its charm when seen through his own eyes. He was desperately afraid it wouldn't take long at all, that if the day ever came when he couldn't leave his chair, it'd be his own choice. Clearly he was going to need better hobbies.

Washing his hands mechanically, he didn't glance up until he was just about to leave, but what he saw froze him in his tracks. Turning back to the mirror over the sinks, he leaned forward in helpless disbelief as both his right hand and its twin touched their cheek. He knew the face reflected back at him, but the eyes...those were definitely not his eyes.

The ones staring impossibly back at him were a perfect, featureless white.

***

"No word yet, listeners, on the delay in returning the loved ones of those who _corrected_ their ballots after last month's special election. 'Maybe _They_ are hedging their bets,' said new mayor Helen Kurlansky with a hollow laugh. Mayor Kurlansky then spent the next three minutes screaming at an uncaring universe which, according to our sources, continued not to care."

Through the window that looked onto the hallway outside his booth, Cecil watched the station interns scurry by, peering in at him with identical expressions of awe and wonder. It was next to impossible not to preen under those flattering stares, but he contented himself with a tiny little grin as he reached over to flip a switch, leaning back into the mic.

"And now," he said as the prerecorded segment cued up, "a word from our sponsors."

They had no idea where he was getting his information. The City Council must have some notion--Station Management certainly did--and he wouldn't be surprised to learn he'd been thoroughly mind-scanned by every agency in town by the end of his first broadcast. That was only to be expected. But the rest of the town could only wonder; he supposed it probably looked a little like dark sorcery to the interns.

"Thank you," he said over his shoulder, taking his fingers off the base of the mic as a bottled water appeared at his elbow. Coffee would have been nice, but the interns treated his voice with a kind of reverence he didn't quite understand, for all that he could stare straight down into the most primitive depths of their beings if he cared to. The microphone, he'd found, only _showed_ the truth; it didn't explain it afterwards.

He waited until the intern was gone before brushing his thumb along the microphone stand once more, the fingers of his right hand tangling absently in the cord. He'd learned that if he didn't commune too deeply for too long, his eyes would stay mostly normal, though they never again darkened past a faint, faded blue. It set people at ease to have something to stare back into, and that was important. He worried them enough as it was.

Somehow he hadn't expected being the Voice of Night Vale to be so...lonely.

The recorded message was just winding down, Cecil reaching left-handed for another switch, when the long cord looping his fingers gave an experimental twitch. Brows arching, Cecil followed through on his reach, but he stared down at his fingers rather than his notes, the words emerging on autopilot.

"Parents, the Night Vale School Board would like to remind you that classes will be starting up again next week, so it's time to start thinking about those supplies. Grenades will _not_ be allowed this year, though most small arms are perfectly acceptable. They would also like to remind you of the changes to the school lunch program, which now includes vegetarian options."

Contorting himself swiftly in his chair, Cecil ducked down in the infinitesimal pause to peer under the desk, left hand finding the microphone again, and saw--nothing. With any of his senses. Just the usual patch of shadows, the microphone cord snaking off along the wall, nothing that could have jostled it or pulled it tight while creeping around just out of sight. That was...odd. Whipping back upright again, he hesitated for a moment and, just in case, settled his foot lightly but firmly over the cord.

The part of it still wrapped around his fingers twitched...and only that part.

Cecil blinked. "In other news," he said slowly, "the Night Vale medical community would like it to be known that an apple a day does _not_ keep the doctor away, and that you shouldn't fall for outdated superstitions, no doubt spread by unlicensed hacks. They would also like to remind you that food allergies are nothing to laugh at, and that you should all be ashamed of yourselves. In fact, maybe you should throw out those apples right now."

The looped cord tightened when he tried to jerk his fingers loose, but when he stilled his hand and lightly tugged, it relaxed enough to let him slip free. When the loops collapsed a moment later, it reminded him of a snake uncoiling itself from some invisible anchor, too purposeful to be anything but deliberate.

"In sports news," he said absently, "football season is already upon us again, and you know what that means." When he reached for the cord again, he caught it between his thumb and two fingers, just managed not to drop it when it wriggled slightly in his grip. "The Night Vale Scorpions are already gearing up to take on their bitter rivals in Desert Bluffs, which has once again fielded the _worst team known to man._ If there are worse teams _unknown_ to man, frankly we are all better off not knowing."

Greatly daring, he pulled the cord through his fingers, feeling for anything strange--muscles? vertebrae?--and finding nothing but wires wrapped in slick, black plastic that pressed into his hand like a cat arching its back. When he stilled it nudged hopefully against his palm, then looped his fingers again when he hesitated, pulling only tight enough to trap, not to hurt.

"The Scorpions' season will begin September the fifth," he said as a slow, fascinated smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, "with a home game that will begin promptly at seven. Spectators are strongly encouraged to bring a sturdy stadium umbrella, just in case the half-time show turns unpleasant again. _For shame, Desert Bluffs,_ " he intoned as he teased his fingers free and let them be caught again. " _For shame._ "

His mother would have despaired of him if she'd caught him at it, but Cecil couldn't help it.

As the microphone cord slithered curiously over one wrist and onto the other, coiling them up and binding them close, he could only grin, entirely, hopelessly charmed.

***

"Hello, listeners."

After so many years, sliding into his chair precisely on time and murmuring his customary greeting into the mic was more than habit. Sometimes it felt like he never truly woke until he stumbled in to work, settled in and reached out, became one with the presence that curled around and through him. Most days he felt frustratingly myopic without Night Vale laid out like a lover or a feast before them, and sometimes even he couldn't quite tell which it was.

"To start things off, I've been asked to read this brief notice." He kept a stack of paper on his desk to appease the interns even though most of his work could be done on the computer now. Paper was comforting, the occasional crisp rustle reassuring even over the airwaves. It was physical and quantifiable where most of Cecil's broadcasts were not. "The City Council announces the opening of a new dog park at the corner of Earl and Somerset, near the Ralph's. They would like to remind everyone that dogs are not allowed in the dog park."

Cecil kept the shudder from his voice out of practice. He'd seen enough, seen _deeply_ enough, that many things which would have sent him screaming into the night like any reasonably intelligent citizen now gave him only a slight tension headache, but there were still things he didn't _want_ to see. The dog park was one of them.

" _People_ are not allowed in the dog park. It is possible you will see hooded figures in the dog park. _Do not approach them. Do not approach the dog park._ The fence is electrified and highly dangerous. Try not to look at the dog park, and especially do not look for any period of time at the hooded figures. The dog park will not harm you."

He hoped they'd listen, but he'd know all too well if they didn't. It wasn't as if he could _not_ watch.

He did try to preserve some boundaries, at least. He always made a point of looking away from furtive touches, lingering stares, ended each show before the night's secret hours could give him too much to look away from. All the same, with all he knew and could never, ever tell, he couldn't help feeling close to his listeners after spending so much of his days and hours following their lives. He'd bled for Leann Hart as her marriage fell apart and took the newspaper with it, had rooted shamelessly for John Peters--" _you know, the farmer_?" he'd reminded his audience until that first, glorious crop of imaginary corn hit tables across Night Vale. In some way he couldn't explain, they were _his._

Even the ones he couldn't stand, like that jerk Steve Carlsburg, who kept _two_ radios in his house and continued to turn a willing ear to Desert Bluffs' relentless drive for modernism, questioning everything for the sheer, perverse joy of having a point to argue.

He still couldn't believe he'd made such a fool of himself over that man in high school. _Ugh._

"And now," he managed to say without seething, "the news."

It was such _good_ news, too.

"Old Woman Josie, out near the car lot, says the angels revealed themselves to her," he reported with a smile he tried not to voice. "Said they were ten feet tall, radiant, and one of them was black. Said they helped her with various household chores. One of them changed a light bulb for her--the porch light. She's offering to sell the light bulb, which has been touched by an angel. It was the black angel," he confided, "if that sweetens the pot for anyone. If you're interested, contact Old Woman Josie. She's out near the car lot."

It was the memory of her face the evening before that had him beaming in his chair. He'd done what he could, visited her for the most spurious of reasons to collect interviews he already knew all the answers to, but while he'd made her feel less lonely, it wasn't until the arrival of the angels that she finally looked less _alone._

If that made him swallow a wistful sigh on his own behalf, it was something he was used to.

"A new man came into town today," he said automatically and only belatedly wondered why he didn't mention the others. There'd been six altogether, four men and two women, young and alone and expendable. That told him the other five were probably scientists as well, even if they hid it better. "Who is he? What does he want from us? Why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful coat?"

It was the lab coat he'd noticed first, that unexpected touch of politeness catching his eye even before the sheer magnificence of the stranger's stunning coif could leave him breathless. He'd seen visitors come and go--mostly go, at least if they were lucky--but that was just how visitors were. It wasn't smart to get attached, especially not with the scientists. He'd stopped reporting altogether on their arrivals and disappearances and occasional relocations to safer climes, mentioning them now only as a public service announcement to let others know where the larger predators could be expected to gather.

Most scientists only put their lab coats on when they were broadcasting their well-marbled tenderness especially loudly, but this one had driven into town with his colors on full display. Maybe he didn't know that some people still thought it was bad luck when a scientist crossed one's path, but Cecil would bet he also didn't care. _Flee me or fear me,_ he seemed to be saying, _but don't think for a minute I'll apologize._

It was absolutely _delightful._

He knew he shouldn't keep watching the man--Carlos; his name was _Carlos_ \--but then Carlos called a town meeting, and Cecil simply _had_ to report.

On fire with eagerness and the first, heady thrill of discovery, Carlos was exactly like a thousand others of his kind, so excited to be _in_ Night Vale they forgot what it would mean to live there. As he waxed passionate about just how scientifically interesting their little community was, his brilliant eyes twinkled--literally twinkled, dark deliverers defend them--and really, it was such a shame. Beautiful and curious _and_ pure of heart, and just under that a shining layer of integrity wrapped in the comforting softness of well-meaning concern. If he wasn't eaten by sundown, it would be a miracle.

He wanted to look away, he really did, but for the very first time, _something_ wouldn't let him.

_Wait,_ he felt as smooth, narrow coils looped his wrists, binding his hands tight around the microphone stand. **See.**

He saw a five-course meal, the most tempting bait to ever be dangled under Fate's exceedingly sharp nose. He saw a man too beautiful for his own--and possibly anyone else's--good. He looked deeper on a whim, down past all the layers of lovely, lovely things that were going to get Carlos killed so fast learning even his first name would prove to be a wasted effort, and found--

_Steel._ An infinite core of it, threaded through with fears conquered but remembered, buttressed by unswerving dedication and an unflinching intellect that was simply breathtaking. Buried under the shining nacre that made Cecil want to cover his eyes against the inevitable lurked blackened pits full of things with many teeth, which had _devoured_ the terrors and doubts that used to nest there. Somewhere in Carlos' heart of hearts, their severed heads and bloodied pelts hung neatly on display, with cheery strings of blinking lights to preserve the festiveness of the memory.

In the slice of the world Carlos could see, shadowy agents murmured into their sleeves, making room for a few tardy members of the Sheriff's Secret Police as one of Old Woman Josie's angels manifested in the empty chair next to hers. The angel was holding out a book; it had 'Night Vale Public Library' stamped along the bottom edge. Mayor Winchell stared hard at the angel and let out a low, feral growl, sitting so close to Carlos' podium he couldn't possibly have missed the sound.

Carlos _grinned,_ more than a little fierce himself, and Cecil fell in love _instantly._

Their new scientist was, in a word, _perfect._

That wasn't to say that Cecil expected to see him in person so soon, which was foolish. Perfection was a terrifying thing, and he knew better than to underestimate it. Yet there Carlos was hours later, barely a day into his stay and already standing in the sound booth with a strange little machine that whistled and chirped like a whole nest of hungry baby birds. Cecil had thought it was a Geiger counter at first, but all the ones the scientists of years past had run around town with only clicked and ticked and occasionally exploded. This device must be new.

"I...think it might be time to evacuate the building," Carlos said distractedly, walking towards Cecil instead of away. It was lovely to see the nervousness in his eyes--situational awareness was generally the last thing a scientist developed--but Cecil couldn't deny it made his heart beat faster to watch Carlos' wary approach. "It's not safe," Carlos warned as he came closer still, looming tall and strong and wonderfully cautious over Cecil, some sort of sensor wand clutched in his hand. "We, uh...."

Cecil could barely contain a shudder as Carlos held the wand out towards him. Cool metal passed just inches from his cheek as Carlos trailed it down slowly, along his neck, his chest, his outstretched arm, drifting up the shiny steel base of Cecil's microphone and freezing as the machine's frantic warbling melded into a steady scream.

"We really should be dead," Carlos breathed, eyes wide, staring so _deep_ into the microphone Cecil wouldn't be surprised if Carlos knew it was staring back.

With the bend of his forefinger and thumb framing the base of the microphone stand, nothing within Night Vale's borders could truly hide from Cecil, and he realized with a giddy jolt that he wasn't the only one taken with the perfect and beautiful Carlos. The presence tethered to his microphone--whose extrusion into the planes of Cecil's native understanding perhaps only resembled a microphone--was everything every searching, curious atom of Carlos had been praying for all his life, and in watching his familiar symbiont practically preen under Carlos' horrorstruck regard, Cecil finally understood what it saw in _him._

It might be a window onto truth, but without someone to look through it, its existence was meaningless.

_Go on,_ Cecil nearly urged as Carlos hovered, hesitated. To see Carlos' hands square and sure on the mic--but gods, that would be too, too dangerous. Who knew how Carlos' exquisite mind, untutored by years of gazing into the void and _around_ much less benevolent things, would react to seeing the world as it really was? Cecil himself had not been left unscathed, and he'd been groomed for that moment nearly his entire life.

He tried to tell himself he wasn't disappointed when Carlos took a prudent step back, then another. He ought to be happy Carlos was behaving sensibly, even if the danger wasn't real. Fear would keep the man alive ever so much longer than headstrong curiosity, and indeed, Carlos was already far more advanced along the evolutionary curve than any scientist Cecil had ever met or heard of. He ought to be _happy._

He barely managed to make it through his closing remarks after Carlos fled the studio, reporting dutifully on Carlos' visit and sending a hopeful wish over the air that no one else in town would be going to bed quite as alone as Cecil would feel before switching off.

He had his belt unfastened moments later, popping the button on his fly and jerking the zipper down sharply. Slender coils of black dove for the opening before his hands were quite out of the way, burrowing under his briefs and looping greedily around the stiff line of his cock as he freed it from the awkward angle at which it'd been pressed. Breath catching as the coils pulled tighter, he managed not to jump at the casual knock on the door, Intern Chad sticking his head in without waiting for a reply.

"I'm heading out now," he called as Cecil pretended to reach across the soundboard for something, hiding his lap from view. "Need anything before I go?"

"I'm fine, thanks," he replied, normally enough to surprise even himself. "Good night, Chad."

He could hear Chad's grin in his voice. "Good night," Chad echoed back and shut the door, fishing his car keys from his pocket as he waltzed blithely away.

Gods above and beyond and between, _finally._

Slumping back in his chair, he closed a hand around his shaft and groaned as the sinuous cord flexed under his palm. It had him wrapped so tightly coming would be impossible, rippling frictionlessly around him in a peristaltic wave that made him grab for the edge of the desk with his free hand. With the other he squeezed hard, rocking helplessly and futilely up into his fist, only half-feeling his own touch through the gaps left in the closely-twined cord.

He was certain he ought to be embarrassed, ashamed of himself, for Carlos' sake if nothing else. It was hard to hold on to that certainty with blood-warm coils doing everything he liked. Pulsing around him with exactly the right pressure, they eased off by unpredictable turns, slid in time with the stroking of his hand until he was right on the edge, only to constrict once again. It didn't matter how much he begged, his breath coming in sobbing gasps as he writhed in his chair. It had him and it wouldn't let him go, not his cock nor his pleasure, nor his eyes.

Carlos was what he saw as black coils slipped and twined--Carlos sitting quiet in his car, staring at the station door with a worried look that deepened by the moment. Large hands gripped the steering wheel, long fingers curling-- _tight,_ oh gods--dark eyes going darker still. He was thinking of them, still stuck in the studio, and Cecil let himself wonder what would happen if Carlos were to climb out of his car right now, come back into the near-empty station and peer through the window. An audience wouldn't faze Cecil's partner in so many things; it'd only keep teasing him, perhaps more blatantly than before, and if Cecil didn't think fast, Carlos would be able to see.

If his strong, warm hand were to lace with Cecil's, tangle in the microphone cord, he'd be able to see _everything._

"Careful," Cecil gasped, confident that his breathless shorthand would be understood.

They had to be careful of Carlos, so very careful. Perfection was one thing, but that didn't mean it couldn't be marred, broken, erased. Sometimes you just had to sneak up on it while its back was turned.

But that was all right. Cecil--"Oh gods, _please,_ "--was nothing if not patient.

***

The first time Carlos made contact with Cecil's studio partner, Cecil had been more than a little distracted with trying to figure out how to get Carlos to run. It was unforgiveable that he kept forgetting to take this into account, but Carlos wasn't just curious; he was brave, the suicidal kind that made mother birds fly shrieking and howling at cats when their nests were threatened, only to be sucked into the glistening vortex of the cat's hungry maw. Cecil had already known exactly what was cutting a direct path to the station; it was not knowing why that had him shaking.

He didn't know what made Carlos grab for the microphone when he'd always been so respectful of Cecil's duties before--desperation, maybe, or intuition. Or maybe a barely-perceptible push from a vast, unseen consciousness at just the right moment. He'd noticed Carlos reaching out and had lunged to stop him, too aware of all the things that could go wrong. Even if everything went _right,_ that first moment of contact was a doozy, and this was no time for Carlos to be incapacitated.

Only Carlos hadn't been. He'd taken to the abolishment of his mortal limits like a disembodied knocking took to walls, and if they'd had the time, Cecil would have peppered him with increasingly excited questions and dived in after him.

There was just the small matter of Station Management's visiting twin or cousin or distant relative to deal with first, and that did rather eat up one's attention.

But gods, he was so curious he could _burst_.

***

In the quiet of the sound booth with the show off the air and their visitor gone, Cecil knelt before Carlos with the first aid kit and made a last few practiced swipes with an alcohol pad at Carlos' bloody knee. He'd cracked it a good one, utterly ruining a pair of pants, and Cecil winced guiltily as he rummaged through the kit for the biggest Band-Aid he could find. "Er...maybe a gauze patch," he said with a helpless cringe, not so much for the bleeding, but--

"You'd still have to tape it," Carlos pointed out, the corners of his mouth tucked tightly down in a dismal attempt to hide a grin. He'd been patient with Cecil's insistence on doctoring him up, but now that Cecil was dithering, he looked frankly charmed. "Leg hair is a pain no matter what. I'll deal with it."

He was not going to suggest Carlos shave, which might be taken as a little too forward even at this stage in their relationship. He was already having a hard enough time ignoring the fact that Carlos was in _his_ chair, and here he was, on his knees, lovingly cleaning away the blood. Fifth date material for sure, only somehow they'd skipped all that and headed right into burgeoning domesticity.

The reality of those missing stages was both better and far more nerve-wracking than all his imaginings.

On his right, the microphone sat once more on the desk, patient and still. Its cord had simply retracted as they retraced their steps, politely gathering in the slack so neither of them would trip on the way. He'd left it in Carlos' still-trembling hand, figuring Carlos would let go when he was ready, but they'd reached the sound booth long before Carlos' untutored mind could have settled. When Carlos took a deep breath, banished a look of wistful longing from his face and forced himself to return the mic to the desk where he'd found it, Cecil had thought his heart would simply crack open.

Brilliant. Fierce. _Incorruptible._ Carlos couldn't have been more perfect for them if he'd been engineered by black sorcery, and Cecil had _checked._

Finished with Carlos' knee, Cecil reached for his hand next, cradling it gently between both of his own. Bactine for this one, he thought, but maybe no bandages; it was already scabbing over, the abrasions not nearly as deep.

"Is, uh...it?" Carlos hesitated uncertainly, as if waiting for Cecil to jump in. "Is it going to be okay? Seemed like that really hurt earlier, with the door and all, but, uh...."

Cecil stared in confusion until Carlos cocked his head to his left, angling his chin at the microphone.

"Oh! Must be your inflection. We use 'it' for the sound board; _'it'_ is for eldritch unknowables existing outside time and space and sentience itself. Extrude into enough dimensions," he explained with a shrug, "and gender classification isn't so much non-binary as non-Euclidean."

"It," Carlos repeated, getting the inflection right the first time. Then he shook his head. "Sentience?"

Cecil smiled patiently, sitting back on his heels with Carlos' hand still captive in his own. He kept forgetting how little practical knowledge Carlos had despite surviving so impressively long. "It moves, but I'm not actually sure it's what we'd call alive. It can communicate--quite well, actually," he admitted, his face heating slightly, "but I don't know whether it actually _thinks_ or just observes, uh... _holistically_ and reacts. And I while wouldn't say it _requires_ a human consciousness to truly know itself, there seems to be something in the...well, the communion that it craves."

Frowning thoughtfully, Carlos glanced sideways at the microphone. If Cecil hadn't already claimed his nearest hand, he looked like he would have reached out a second time. "That...makes sense, actually," he said, so many theories flickering in his eyes Cecil wanted to squirm in sympathy with the hunger he could feel growing all around them. "It's probably our very limitations that make us interesting. If it's operating on that many planes, just narrowing the focus would give it a whole new way of experiencing the world. _God,_ what this does to the mind-body problem. Do you think--I mean, I wouldn't want to presume, but could you ask--"

"Touch us," Cecil groaned, " _please._ "

Carlos looked surprised, but only for a moment. Gently freeing himself from Cecil's hold, he reached to his left as the fingers of his right hand brushed Cecil's cheek, drifting slowly down to his jaw.

Cecil felt it the instant Carlos' bloodied palm closed around a benevolent approximation of steel, something almost like electricity arcing with Carlos as the bridge. There was the familiar overflowing of his mind into channels and tributaries he barely had concepts for, the by-now reassuring presence of something immense cradling him to an immaterial breast, but there was also Carlos. Not seen from an admiring step removed but real and immediate, their edges overlapping and beginning to flow together. Carlos' startlement burst strangely peppery on Cecil's tongue, and he felt Carlos feeling that and reining himself in, exquisitely polite. He truly was the best boyfriend ever, and Cecil couldn't wait to crow that fact yet again to all of Night Vale. After so many years of being set apart, held at arm's length--

_Cecil?_ Carlos asked without words, surprise mixed this time with alarm. It tasted a little like curry. _You--what do you mean? Set apart? You--_

It was simply adorable the way Carlos had such an idealized, unrealistic image of him, but he would have thought Carlos had noticed by now. The town liked him. They _needed_ him. They believed in him the way small children believed in tooth fairies and didn't sleep for weeks for fear they'd swallow a loosening tooth by accident. But that didn't mean they wanted his inexplicable knowledge sitting across from them at a table at Gino's, much less in their beds.

Cecil had looked deeply into many things and many people, but never once had anything mortal looked so deeply into him. Coming from a scientist, he half expected that all-seeing regard to feel cold and clinical, but the understanding Carlos wrapped him in was as warm and soft as a well-washed blanket, sinking into him with a taste of honey and almonds. He almost wanted to hide--he'd never realized before that being seen in his entirety could be frightening, and just maybe he owed the entire town an apology--but Carlos' unwavering acceptance wouldn't let him run.

_You know I'm not perfect,_ Carlos reminded him, embarrassment a lick of raw persimmon, amusement brassy mango. _But you think I am anyway. Can't it be my turn?_

Stretching up on his knees, Cecil leaned in to capture Carlos' mouth hungrily, hand whipping out to trap Carlos' against the stem of the microphone before Carlos could forget himself and pull Cecil closer. The hulking presence that had shadowed his life from his first night in the station curled mindfully around them, ghosting wistfully over their melded edges until Cecil threw a part of himself wide open with a frustrated groan.

Carlos' surprise at Cecil's unthinking invitation made that presence flutter hesitantly away.

His instant, half-shy _intrigue_ coaxed it back. Purring.

_Cecil?_

He knew they should have talked about this before now, but he'd never tried to describe it even to himself. Nothing quite fit--they were hardly simple coworkers, but god and worshipper didn't really work either; they were almost friends, if Cecil could just ignore the addiction that would have kept him coming back even if they'd been enemies. Never true symbionts, they each gave the other something irreplaceable, and there were certain things that had risen out of their strange, conjoined lives that they agreed on implicitly.

Touch was necessary. Being not-alone was vitally necessary. And they both wanted to touch and be not-alone with Carlos, perfect in ways he was far too modest to understand.

There were many shades of meaning to Carlos' quiet, _Show me?_ but as they were now, they understood every one.

***

"God," Carlos breathed under him later, much later, heart racing beneath Cecil's ear. Carlos was sprawled across the sound booth floor, Cecil curled into his side with his head pillowed on Carlos' chest, and though they were still entangled with what had to be a hundred feet of microphone cord, Cecil could only marvel that Carlos had found the wherewithal to be even that articulate. Multidimensional communion was too much effort for any of them at the moment. "That. Hnh."

Humming an agreement, Cecil nuzzled into damp skin, flicked his tongue out to catch a familiar taste of salt and warm human musk and was surprised to find he didn't miss being able to taste Carlos' thoughts through his skin. It was enough for him that Carlos was Carlos, had been enough for a while, and he realized with a start that as much as he enjoyed his unique view of the town, he was just as content to _live_ in it so long as Carlos was there. Somehow he hadn't expected that, but he loved that it was true.

Even though it meant he got very little downtime, even after a marathon of orgasms across more dimensions than he could comfortably name.

He could almost feel Carlos waking up beneath him, lungs no longer laboring while his heart kicked up another half-beat in measured excitement. If he bothered to lift his head, he knew he'd catch Carlos with a far-away look, teeth worrying his lower lip as his hands twitched with helpless longing for a pen.

"That," Carlos said again, "was incredible. Amazing. Just...really quite phenomenal. But," he added just as Cecil was beginning to relax, " _how_ have you not used that to...I don't know. Investigate the lights above the Arby's. Look into the dog park. Um. Am I going to be reeducated for this?"

"No, no," Cecil reassured him absently, nuzzling into Carlos' chest hair. He had just the right amount, springy and soft, and--oh. "And we don't talk about the dog park," he remembered belatedly to add.

"Cecil...."

Ugh, he knew that voice. It was the "you're not getting any sleep for a while, because I think very loudly, and I never _stop_ thinking if you leave me with a puzzle, so you'd better just start talking now" voice. Luckily for Carlos, there were benefits to his single-mindedness; all Cecil had to do was wait.

"Well, it wouldn't do any good," he mumbled into Carlos' sternum. "It only reveals truths, not secrets."

"Uh...what?" One of Carlos' hands had settled between his shoulder blades, and lost in thought, he'd begun to run the blunt tips of his fingernails up and down Cecil's back.

Cecil melted, arching his spine into the gentle scratching. So long as he kept that up, Carlos could keep him up overthinking things as long as he wanted.

"It shows things as they are," he murmured drowsily after a moment, prodded back to the question by a slowing of Carlos' perfect, magical fingers. "It doesn't explain how they got that way."

He could tell Carlos wanted to argue that, that seeing _was_ knowing, but some quiet thought made him close his mouth again.

"You've been able to see me all along," Carlos said at last, nails still drifting slow and soothing over Cecil's back.

"Mm-hmm." He didn't ask why Carlos was stating something that must have been obvious; it seemed to be an integral part of the scientific method.

"Oh," Carlos said, chest rising on a long, deep breath. When he let it out, all the tension seemed to drain out of him as well. "All right."

He made a note to ask later what that had been about, but for now Cecil was content merely to rest, utterly certain he was utterly known and somehow loved regardless.


End file.
